The Empty Tower Flat
by Lozilan
Summary: Another version of the Empty House story, this time there are interesting twists and unexpected turns. There is angst, drama, fun and watch out for a subtle touch of parody.
1. Chapter 1

**The Empty Tower Flat.**

Setting,_ about 18 months after the fall _

_Summary -John is not coping well and things are about to get worse!_

_Disclaimers -I don`t own Sherlock or any of its characters._

_Thanks to Dr Kitten for editing this chapter. I really appreciate your help and suggestions. Thanks also to Libriaranmum for additional beta reading and suggestions .._

_There is a song theme in this work , 'our version of events' by Emeli Sande, but I also quote_ _from other songs..._

_I really value your reviews readers.._

Preamble...

London has a district called Tower Hamlets. The skyscraper flats there tower over the smaller buildings. A few of them are old and need repair. Those owned by the city to house the otherwise homeless often sit next to exclusive new developments. In some the council has moved people out while they make necessary repairs. There is not another district where there is such a juxtaposition of rich and poor across the skylines of London.

...

"Next please."

John was sitting in his consulting room in the nearly empty surgery, idly tapping on his computer. Well not exactly idly - he couldn't help flicking on the poker game he'd been following for some time. Not just following, he had placed bets, several bets.

This morning he'd had another argument with the chip and pin machine. He was broke. He was also bound to be in trouble as he had not got his share of the rent this month. Locum doctors are paid well but John just couldn't make himself work every day, or even every other day. In fact he was hardly working at all. He also suspected he had maxed out his credit cards.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," he said, and a woman entered timidly. He sighed. Every time he was on duty this woman would book in to see him. How she knew what days he was working when he often never knew himself was a mystery, she must be phoning up to check almost daily! It was getting awkward.

"Miss Tumbler," he sighed. "What can I do for you today?"

"It's this cough, Doctor," she said worriedly.

It was usually the cough. Not six months ago he had undertaken a thorough investigation, including X-rays, and found no abnormalities. He had changed her blood pressure medication, ordered tests, done just about everything he could think of - nothing. He now suspected it was psychosomatic or perhaps even fabricated.

She was unbuttoning her blouse. "No wait, I can't do a chest examination without a female nurse present." He had checked her respiration on each occasion and was not about to do it again without a chaperone. He was beginning to think he may be in danger of inappropriate advances and was not about to put himself in that position.

"You won't examine me then?" she asked.

"There's nothing wrong with you," he said testily.

She stood up. "Then I'll see another doctor." She looked hurt.

He nodded -already back at the computer screen, he waved her away dismissively. There were always odd patients like this and he was aware he was considered one of the most caring, attentive Doctors at the practice. That was why she was pursuing him probably. Acting cold towards her was best. It had otherwise been a tediously slow afternoon and as Sherlock used to say, his mind was rebelling at stagnation. That phrase had stuck in his mind.

He had played poker in the army. He remembered the officers' mess, being shown round and asked to join in a game. The good-looking officer playing fast and furiously had looked up at him and smiled. His blond fringe fell appealingly over his eyes and he flicked it away. He was a real pro. Taught John a lot. Encouraged him to bet more and more until he had bet his month's 'salary. That's when it started.

Now he gambled because it was about the only source of danger and excitement left in his miserable life.

As for the initially charming officer, he turned out to be a sadist. John had let himself be drawn in and there had been worse to come. Much worse.

To his shock, he thought he had recognised his tormentor on the late night poker TV channel last night. He had been following a very promising player he knew from the army, Robin Adair, but had fallen asleep after 2 am. Adair had briefly been in Afgahistan before standing on a land mine just outside Basra. John vaguely recalled seeing him and treating his wound. He had lost a foot. John`s medical skills probably saved his legs, if not his life. Now he was playing poker on TV. As a disabled private on very little allowance with possible psychological scars, his CV was not the most attractive to a potential employer in this time of recession. But he was winning, and John had bet with him. Then he lost spectacularly and so had John. Later the doctor started betting on his opponent who seemed to be a more stable proposition, he too had lost. John reckoned he had lost about £2000 overnight.

Now he felt tired and grumpy - and penniless and pathetic. No, that can't be true, he reasoned. He had a job earning a very good salary, a girlfriend or prospective girlfriend who he lived with, a book recently accepted by a publisher, and some degree of fame. Yes … he closed his eyes, a fond smile playing on his features. He had been the famous companion of Sherlock Holmes.

He snapped open his eyes and sighed as reality invaded. At least he now had a book deal out of it. A Study in Pink was being launched the day after tomorrow and he had already spent the advance. He was due to appear on a TV talk show the following evening. And the book was going to sell well according to the producer. There had even been talk of a film.

_Which actors would I choose to play us_, he mused. He had to be ready for the show tomorrow; it was time to go. He got up and found his boss, Sarah. "That's it for today, can't stay longer, see you at home hon, I'm off."

She was used to this. The last patient would have to see another Doctor. He stepped out of the clinic quickly.

Sarah had taken him in. It hadn't been out of pity. She was a practical woman and had just moved to a two bedroomed flat and needed help with the rent. With Sherlock gone and his one or two dates in between fizzling out and no-one left to stay with, she had somehow kind-of re-taken him. He wouldn't live at Baker street anymore. He didn`t think he was actually in love with Sarah any more, she was his endearing friend.. with benefits.

John sighed. With his mind engaged on introspection, he found himself automatically walking down the familiar paths to Baker Street again. He didn't know why his feet seemed to lead him here. This was not his home any more, and he didn't want this.

He was immediately aware he was being followed. His instincts kicked in too late. Before he could even turn to look he felt a blow to his head behind him and he fell. Someone was standing above him .

"You are in some debt to us, Watson," a rough voice said. Then there was another blow before he had recovered from the last. John felt his face connect with the flagstones on the pavement. He felt blood dripping from his hairline. There was a sudden pain as one of the men kicked him, the boot connecting with the side of his face.

" I ... I can pay!" he cried desperately. "Just wait a few days and I will have plenty of mon ... ah ... ey"

The last syllable was forced out of him as another kick landed on his back. Then he heard the voice of the another man: soft, insinuating, and hauntingly familiar.

"I know you've been watching me on the poker channel, Watson, so if you say anything about what you saw you will be in trouble. I may kill you, promise or not." He heard the sound of knees creaking as the man bent down and whispered in his ear- "and if the dead decide they are actually alive, the promise is completely void. He knows I will do it. This is a warning -say nothing and stay away."

John lay there for what seemed ages with that strange sentence ringing in his head. He heard a car stop and the sound of a door opening, then he was being bundled up and into the sleek limo. A towel was handed to him and he groggily wiped his bloody face. He looked at the man beside him in the car.

"Mycroft, I don't need your help," he said wearily. "Let me get out and I will see to myself, I don't want to be anywhere near you again, you know that." He tried the door handle but the car took off and it was locked anyway.

"So, John." Mycroft looked at him with a false smile and a severe look in his eyes. "You are-" He looked at a file in his lap. "-sixty thousand in debt so far, even after an advance from your publisher of thirty-five thousand. Have you been gambling, or is it another vice?"

John groaned, "Is it that much already?"

"You took a loan out with-" Mycroft glanced down again."-M and M loan company , at an interest rate, let's see, of over 500 per cent." He raised his eyebrows. "You have other loans and five credit cards all at the maximum which you cannot pay off."

John looked out of the window "Got an aspirin?" he asked.

Mycroft grinned maliciously. "It's a great deal of money, John. Were those bailiffs beating you up just now?"

"Leave me alone, Mycroft, you don't owe me anything."

"But _you_ do, don't you? You owe a lot of money and I am going to pay it, on the condition," He held up his hand at John's protestations, "that you let me help you. I know my brother used to lock away your cards and I suspect you have a problem with something. You always appear sober and there are no signs of addiction to drugs, which or course leaves gambling or …"

It's gambling," cut in John. "Yes I have had a problem … ever since, well, ever since the army."

"You have an appearance on a talk show tomorrow night and the producer is an acquaintance of mine, although not a colleague, I am afraid. Knowing what he is like he may not go easy on you. Still, it's to promote your book about my late brother, which I am greatly looking forward to. We will have to patch you up a bit first, won't we? And get you out of any further temptation. Try not to get too much blood on the seat, will you?"

The car rolled on in silence. Mycroft was looking sideways at him observing him, John thought with a clench in his already sore stomach. He put his hands round to check his kidneys. No doubt he was going to hospital. He had to get away.

He suddenly remembered what he had seen last night on the poker channel: someone was cheating. Had to be -he wouldn't have lost that much money otherwise, he was not an idiot. Well actually he must be an idiot, he thought. How on earth could he have got sixty thousand in debt - and after the advance payment as well? Something was wrong. The cheating must have been going on for a while, he saw that now. Poker was a game he excelled in.

That man on TV, it was him! A late replacement for Adair. That's right! Adair had left the game suddenly, why? Was he the one cheating?

John now understood what was going on, because the person who had replaced Adair late last night was the same one who had taught John to be an ace poker player in the evenings and seen the medic's potential as a sniper after his crack shots in the firing range. He was his sometime mentor and later on, torturer. The man who made his last two years in Afghanistan a nightmare and was responsible for the death of at least five men under his command , not withstanding the shot that nearly killed John and left disfigurement and injury to his shoulder. The man he finally reported for gross acts of violence . The man he helped get drummed out of the army. Colonel Sebastian Moran.

John suddenly noticed that the car had stopped and Mycroft was patiently waiting for the driver to come round and open the door so they could get out. "What … this isn't the hospital, where are we?"

Mycroft leaned over to help the doctor out as he instinctively backed away, almost falling out backwards when driver finally opened the car door. They were in front of an impressive townhouse. The chauffeur gripped his bruised arm tightly to steady him as they approached the steps. Mycroft took the towel in his umbrella hand and supported the doctor's other arm.

"This is my house, John. I can't allow you to leave, I'm afraid. You are staying the night with me."


	2. Chapter 2

Empty Tower Flat

Chapter Two -

_Yeah we're playing those mind games together  
Projecting our images in space and in time John Lennon, Mind Games_

_Disclaimers as before, thanks again to Dr Kitten and libririanmum for editing this chapter_.

The imposing residence of Mycroft Holmes stood serenely in Park Lane.

John paced slowly in his allocated upstairs room, which was airy and luxurious. He was being treated as a virtual prisoner. He had phoned Sarah to try to explain what had happened to him, but she hadn't really understood. If he'd told her anything about his attack, she would have become worried and no doubt would have tried to come over to see him, so he told her he was staying with a friend. Not that he regarded Mycroft in any way a friend. Especially now that he was being kept like a stray puppy, paid off and kept. There was no way to get out either by the window or the door, which led to the hallway where staff looking like guards were wandering about.

He heard the handle turn on his maplewood door and one of the staff came in. John whipped round, exasperated and feeling vulnerable. What now, he wondered.

He had been stripped and examined almost forcefully by a so-called nurse earlier, and another medic had checked him over too. He would be all right: a few cracked ribs and superficial injuries, but thankfully his internal organs were not damaged.

The valet nodded to him, walked into his bathroom and turned on the water.

After a whirlpool bath and a few snacks, he was feeling slightly less frazzled and in less pain than before. It was now a quarter after nine o'clock, and he was exceedingly stiff and quite tired. He got into the bed in his room to rest and felt it dip a little under his weight. It was a waterbed. It was lovely, warm and comfortable. He waited for the inevitable tap on the door. Two long hours later, it came.

"How are you feeling, John ?" asked Mycroft, coming straight in without waiting. What was it with the Holmes brothers and their dressing gowns, John mused. Mycroft was wearing a green-piped gold affair that screamed expensive. He came straight over and sat on the bed uninvited. The bed dipped down alarmingly and began to rock as the water swished inside. John felt himself swaying, and the elder Holmes gently placed his hand on the bed beside him in order to steady himself.

John gulped. He was a bit wary of this situation; who knew what Mycroft wanted of him? Maybe he was going to demand John undertake some secret government work in return for his sixty thousand. He wants my loyalty and allegiance, John thought, would I be in a position to refuse?

"Are you quite rested and no longer in pain? Do you need anything?" he asked solicitously. John looked away.

"Get out, Mycroft, I'm not your pet."

The elder Holmes removed his hand and stood up slowly. "Very well, I shall see you at breakfast, John."

As the doctor lay back on the covers, looking at the slightly bowed departing figure, he felt a little contrite." Well, yes I am in some pain, actually. I'll have some more painkillers if you could get some, thanks. Perhaps you could ask your medical friend to prescribe some tramadol for me? Otherwise I doubt I will get any sleep tonight."

"Consider it done," Mycroft nodded as he left.

The pills arrived and John still couldn't drop off. There was something playing on his mind. What was it that the infamous Moran had softly said only to him, something about the dead deciding to live again? Dare he imagine there could be any hope? Just a glimmer? Or was it some tease or insult that Moran's twisted mind had dreamt up to hurt him even more than the physical injuries.

He finally fell into a fitful sleep and dreamt of Sherlock falling and he was running up and this time dodging the bike and getting there in time to catch him. Sherlock fell into his arms as light as a feather. Floating down to him. A wish fulfillment dream. He woke up to reality, dreadful reality, coming down from a tramadol night.

Breakfast was a somber affair at Mycroft's house - no cake or muffins, he must be on another diet then. John sat down and ordered a pancake just to spite him. The maid brought it and he watched Sherlock's brother almost appear to taste it himself as he licked his lips, observing every bite.

"Are you watching your figure again, Mycroft?" he asked playfully.

"I have put on ten pounds after an unfortunate trip abroad," Mycroft said, nibbling at a small dry wheat biscuit. It looked very unappetizing.

John took a sip of tea. He found it interesting that Mycroft, obviously so sensitive about his weight, was willing to confide in him.

"You know I will pay you back when the book starts selling, of course."

"No, John, I will control your finances from now on."

John looked up in shock. "What do you mean, you will control … look, I am not a child, you can't do this!" He cast his eyes about trying to find some convincing argument. "How can I explain it to Sarah, for a start, and what gives you the right …"

"You are not yourself, John. I have taken the liberty of destroying all your cards; if you need money you will carry cash. When you need cash you will ask me. I will get you the help you so obviously need. You will stay with me until you are out of danger. That is all."

"You cannot be serious!" John shouted. "What megalomaniac game are you playing? You really think you can control me?"

"I can and I will. I will keep you safe until Sh- until such time as I see fit. I need to visit my office now. You will be taken to the television studio at four and my driver will collect you after the interview. Tomorrow you will be accompanied to the book launch at the store. Sarah will be informed you are staying with me. Your share of the rent is paid. You will do no more work."

John was feeling trapped. No wonder Sherlock used to think his brother was a spider. He was struggling in a web of insolvency of his own making and had allowed himself to be advanced upon and wrapped in the golden silken tresses of a controlling mind. Mycroft had been watching and waiting for a moment like this. He was probably about to pounce.

John jumped as he looked up and felt those eyes boring into him.

"Come now, John, don't be so dramatic; leave that to your wonderful stories. You have quite a vivid imagination, you know."

John shuddered. "You can't possibly have known what I was thinking then."

Mycroft smiled superciliously. "It's quite obvious to me what you were thinking, John. Not the exact words but I certainly got the gist of it. I am not going to take advantage of you in your reduced circumstances, my dear doctor - that is not my intention even though you seem to expect it. Until this evening, then. Be strong in the interview and don't let that man get the better of you. He is known to be a bit of a loose cannon. Be seeing you."

Mycroft stood up, then hesitated. "You really must not fear me, John, I am not your enemy. This is for your own good." He picked up his copy of the Times from the side table and looked down at the doctor chillingly." You are not in any position to resist me. Do not try."

Mycroft made for the hallway, picking up his umbrella on the hat stand. John heard the door bang.

'What the hell must your childhood have been like, Sherlock,' he whispered to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

The Empty Tower Flat. Chapter 3.

Thanks to librarianmum for editing this chapter.

___Let's get the tv and the radio to__ play our tune again_

___its 'bout time we got some airplay of our version of events: ____Emeli Sande_

_Going Public..._

The studios were a revelation to him. John got out of the lift looking for the right door. It was much bigger than he imagined and he was now most likely on the wrong floor. He studied the little map reception had given him and his letter, and tried to find out where he was. Engrossed in the map, he felt a friendly pat on the arm and looked into the eyes of a tall handsome young actor. John felt his knees go a little weak.

"Lost are you?" The actor grinned suddenly, looking intently at him. He had short, light, wavy brown hair-but his eyes; those eyes were mesmerizing.

"Err ...yes; I'm looking for- Studio Eight. I... err, I know you, don't I? I'm appearing on this chat show; by the way I love your work. I... I've just written a book- I think you're brilliant! I ..." He was aware he was gabbling, probably not making much sense. `Heck, I'm acting like a fanboy,` he thought. `Get a grip, Watson! `

The actor laughed and pointed to the lift. "Go two floors down and when you emerge from the lift, turn left. At the next junction, turn left again, and it's on the corridor on your right, second door along. You can't miss it. I hope your chat show goes well Mr.…"

"Watson, John Watson-you don't need to tell me who you are! You know, you would be great to play ... I mean ...that is… if they ever made a series out of my book; oh- I've also got a blog. You can follow me and I'll follow you, if you've got one, or are on twitter or anything? " No- he was gabbling again, so embarrassing!

"John." His eyes twinkled. "Well John, I will certainly look you up. Please excuse me, won't you, but I'm late for a reading. So nice to have met you," he said, and tipped him a wink before striding swiftly away.

…..

The producer sat down with him to go through the running order of the show and what was expected of him. "Are there any questions you don't want to be asked?" She queried, "We won't ask anything directly personal, but are there any subjects you want to avoid?"

"I haven't done this before but no, ask anything." He thought for a minute. "No, don't ask about my girlfriend or anything to do with, you know, sex… or my work, or my family. Um, well I… can you tell me what sort of questions they will ask? "

"They will want to know about your book, what it is about and when it's coming out. You don't need to bring a copy in; it will be on the table. You can watch the first part of the show from the green room. You are on last. Oh, and watch out, our lad's a bit of a maverick. He could throw you a curve ball. Keep calm. You'll be fine."

The make up lady was really nice. He got chatting to her. `Is this how actors spend their time? ` he wondered. `It's the life, init?.` She was explaining he needed some foundation on to avoid shine. It was a bit silly. Still he loved the feel of her hands on his face. He joked with her. She was even trying to matchmake him with another young actress who had asked her to find a suitable young man. This actress sounded absolutely gorgeous. Too bad he had Sarah. Perhaps he could move out? He was too much the gentleman though. She would have to dump him, like they all did when Sherlock used to live with him. Now he didn't have him anymore.

As the makeup was going on, he started to muse. He would be able to get women normally out his league if he was successful, float from chat show to chat show, consult on a series maybe, it would be great! Another life he could have, a new sexual allure- like a wad of dollars, a magnetism that comes with fame and fortune. He could make friends with that actor he met; convince him to be his Sherlock in a new series. Yes! Put on those Ray Bans. Get in that open topped car. Live the dream!

"Dr Watson, I'm here to show you the green room." A young girl awoke him from his reverie. She stood ready and waiting for him to get up from the makeup chair.

He saw himself in the light bulb ringed mirror. He was looking good. Years younger- that makeup lady- she'd been masking the bags under his eyes, the black eye and the bruises on his head. Even the cut on his hairline was hidden. She had worked magic! He still missed his cane and was feeling in pain. He popped a couple of tramadol from his pocket and followed her. Feeling nervous, he sat down in the green room. There were snacks, drinks; he accepted a gin and tonic and then another one. It was murder waiting for his turn. He suddenly felt sick. Is this what stage fright is like he thought? Then someone told him five minutes. Suddenly the host was standing up. The screen behind him was showing news clips from the suicide of Sherlock.

"Ladies and gentleman, my next guest has been much in the papers lately. You may have seen the extracts and reviews of his writing. Several articles were published recently renewing speculation about his relationship with the tragic, so-called consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. He was the one-time live-in companion of the fake genius suspected of child poisoning and other more dreadful acts, possibly even murder. He has always defended his close friend, denying any wrongdoing. He is a former Army Captain, a current General Medical Practitioner, an enthusiastic blogger and a confirmed bachelor. His bravery was commended and rewarded in the British Army, where he served as an officer and field surgeon. He has now written a book about his life and the cases he worked on with Sherlock Holmes. He is, Dr John Hamish Watson everybody!"

John felt himself rise to the applause and walk hesitantly out into the set. There was a sea of faces in the audience. His heart was pounding. He felt he was going to throw up.

`I can do this,` he thought. `I can`. He didn't know if he could really go through with it. Every instinct he had was saying run…

..Run.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4.

The Empty Tower Flat.

Thanks to my beta reader librarianmum..

___If the truth has been forbidden then__ we're breaking all the rules .Emeli Sande, Read all about it._

John sat down on the couch beside the two other guests. An American comic was seated on the far side and next to him, a beautiful English actress -now in a blockbuster Hollywood film. He noticed his book on the table in front. `Concentrate on the book', he thought.

"Now, Dr. Watson -John, if I may call you that?" He nodded. "Can you tell me why you have written this book?" The chat show host leaned forward and picked up his book.

This was it. John cleared his throat. "I wanted the world to know that Sherlock was not a fake. He was an amazing wonderful human being, a real genius, and the best and wisest man I have even known."

"Ah, now that's so sweet!" exclaimed the actress, looking at him. She was breathtakingly lovely.

He smiled. "Thank you, I very much hope you will think so too and you will find time to read it," he said, leaning towards her. He took a sip of his drink on the table. It was another gin and tonic.

"Sounds like you were besotted with the prat," butted in the comic.

John looked over at him, baffled. He felt himself becoming slightly irritated. "No, no, he was my friend. I really admired his powers of deduction. I want to make this clear as it seems everyone thought we were a couple. That was not how it was."

The comic looked on the screen above, where the last publicity photo of Sherlock was showing. It was a good picture. He could see John also looking up at Sherlock who, in the shot, was wearing `the hat'. He grinned salaciously.

"I bet that's not all you really admired!"

There were a few sniggers from the audience. The American became encouraged by their reaction.

John could not think of a retort to this. This was not going as he had imagined.

"Well folks," the host interjected. "We have an exclusive report here which has only just been released. It's the post–mortem and I am sure, John, you will see that it raises some questions about the state of mind of your late partner. We also have some photographs." John looked alarmed. "Only of an arm and leg, we are not going to show his face. I think I ought to ask you John, if we could have your permission to show them, as we wouldn't wish to do anything contrary to your wishes."

John was a bit upset but he nodded, swallowing, to allow the host to continue.

"You were not present at his post-mortem Dr Watson ..?"

"I didn't see him .. afterwards, I was ill and I.. I would have liked to have seen him- for closure you understand, but, I couldn't ever have been present at his post-mortem. His brother identified him and ….did everything that was necessary."

"So you have no idea what's in this report?"

"No. None at all."

"I will hand it to you, Dr Watson, if you could read it out?"

The Hollywood actress put her hand on his arm and looked at him sympathetically. Her brown eyes were huge and they showed concern.

He sighed and took the report and started to peruse it. He looked up shocked . "This can't be right?" he said.

Suddenly the paper was snatched out of this hand by the comic.

"Woo hoo! Look at this! It says, high levels of cocaine and heroin were in his system, also.." he screwed his eyes up to decipher the lettering , "amphetamines, antidepressants, tranquilizers and other prescription drugs. Yeah: uppers, downers, coke and smack, what a combination eh? He was a right pepped up rocker, your boyfriend! Probably out of his head when he took the dive."

He handed the report back to the host who took it gingerly and looked at John with a serious air. "A psychiatrist, who has seen this report, believes that your friend may have been affected by long-term drug use. This, already coupled with his sociopathic tendencies, which you have yourself described and his fragile mental health, put him in a psychotic `fugue state` unable to distinguish fantasy from reality." He paused for effect." He may have believed the actor he employed to impress you and the police actually _was_ this` Moriarty`. Perhaps he drew you into a `folie a deux` John."

There was another pause. The interviewer looked gravely at the audience. "As his psychosis deepened, I'm afraid his behaviour became increasing bizarre, ending with kidnapping and poisoning children and eventual suicide."

The guests and the audience were stunned, John amongst them, frozen in turmoil at the host's remarks.

You could have heard a pin drop.

"Can we show the picture now?"

John took back the report. His hands were trembling . He managed to find a voice.

"This is a fake!" He croaked. "I ...I don't know where you got this from but it's totally untrue, he hadn't used since.." He looked at the signature in shock. It was signed Molly Hooper. "What the hell?" His face went white.

The screen behind him showed an arm, the veins clearly scarred with multiple needle points and tracks. John looked up in disbelief and despair. His face felt blotched and red and his eyes were stinging. Something was happening he didn't understand.

`Tell everyone who will listen, tell them, it's all true". He remembered the words but he had not done it. Could not do it.

John looked again at the photograph. Suddenly he laughed. No one else joined in. The room was in total silence.

"No, no," he said confidently. "That's not his arm. That's not his hand. Sh..Sherlock's hands are soft and elegant and he has long beautiful fingers. I know his hands so well. This is a fake, bit like his, but not his. I knew this couldn't be right. You can't fool me."

He looked up smiling and shaking his head. Everyone was staring at him in disbelief.

The American drew in a breath. Back to his talent time. Back to the focus on him, making the audience giggle at his jokes, so he could make it big in Britain as he had come over to do. This was getting way too serious. Time for some light relief.

"Yeah pal? You know his hand so well? Is that maybe because you used to run about London with him, holding it?" The comic snickered, not aware he had hit a nerve.

John gulped, knocking back the rest of his drink. "Oh that, right, somebody saw us then. That was only because of the handcuffs we were wearing at the time," he replied nervously.

"Handcuffs?" The comic gestured to the audience - an "I told you so` look. The audience duly erupted in laughter, glad to have a comic moment after the tension before.

The funny man continued to interact with them while John studied the report determined to find proof it was a fake. He looked up, hearing more laughter, even more angry with the American.

"Look, will you stop that, just stop it! Who do you think you are with all those silly reactive poses? That bloke from The Office? I am trying to think. This is not helping."

"Hey doc, I read your book on the plane and thought it was feasible but now? Oh, come on! Just admit it. Your lover was a druggie, a deadbeat and a weirdo. He played you for a fool as well if this book is anything to go by. You shot a cabbie with an illegal weapon because you thought your new best friend was about to die?" He mocked. "Where's your gun now, soldier? Your guy was probably just taking another upper. Ha ha! He took you in for sure. Hey bud! Kinda bet you took him in too if you get my drift, didn't you? What did you feel? What did you want? You`re a doctor, maybe you were the one giving him those drugs? We all know he was a freak and a fraud and .. this.? This is a just a silly work of fiction!"

He slammed down the book. Held out his arms to the crowd. The audience erupted.

John reacted. He couldn't help it. The tramadol and alcohol and the sleepless nights. Who was this man? He realised he'd never really heard of him before. "Don't you dare!" he spluttered. "Don't you dare! You don't know what you're talking about, any of you! He turned to the mob, now on his feet and shouted. "What he said, it's not true! You want to know how I feel? Like I want to kill anyone in this room who thinks otherwise."

He put his hand in his pocket scrabbling for his phone in a vain attempt to call Mycroft for advice. He turned to the actress for some support but she screamed, thinking he was reaching for a gun. The audience started to panic and several members started screaming too. People were trying to get out of their seats, scrambling over the tops of others. Two security guards came on set and dragged him off. He started struggling. Someone came on to calm everybody down.

...

Far away, a woman was watching the TV scene with a satisfied smile on her face. "Better than expected", she said rising elegantly and turning it off. Moriarty would have been proud.


	5. Chapter 5

The empty tower flat chapter 5

Thanks to librarianmum for beta-ing this chapter.

_I wanna sing_, _I wanna shout, I wanna scream till the words dry out. So put it in all of the papers, I`m not afraid. They can read all about it, read all about it, oh. Emeli Sande_.

John found himself seated at breakfast the following morning, with no clear idea of how he had got there. He was looking at a series of texts from Sarah, as his tea stood untouched by his pancake. There were sausages, bacon, scrambled eggs and mushrooms, all in hot tureens on the table.

Mycroft had loaded his plate up -no sign of the diet today. John frowned; the first text would have been sent late last night at 11pm. Sarah had been concerned; she had been asking if he was alright. The second one was sent at 11.30pm insisting he call her. The third was at midnight, wanting to know if he needed her help or not. The last one was sent at 8am this morning, demanding he be home by this evening -`or`, -she texted, ` it's over`. He didn't remember if he had actually been arrested after being hauled off stage, but he had some memory of later being given a sedative and put to bed.

The papers lay on the table, huge headlines screaming out at him. The tabloid on top; '**Fake Boffin`s Sidekick Goes Bonkers On The Box**'. The broadsheet was a darkly subtle; '**Friend of Discredited Detective Has Breakdown on Chat Show**.' The midrange paper had `**Flawed Genius Blogger in TV Public Gun** **Panic**`.

Mycroft picked up this one and looked over at him slowly shaking his head. There was a picture of him being taken off stage looking dishevelled, underneath the main headline. A review of his book and more about his life and relationship with Sherlock appeared to be all in a special feature inside.

All John could imagine was the actor he'd met when he'd been lost yesterday, picking up that paper and softly chuckling to himself. He felt a wave of shame wash over him.

The elder Holmes slowly put his paper down and took a sip of tea. "Needless to say, your launch has been canceled and at least two major bookstores will no longer be stocking your novel until legal issues have been sorted out. You strongly hinted in the book that it was you who had killed the taxi driver, and his family are now calling for an investigation and for your arrest. There is the matter of your illegal weapon and the state of your mental health."

He sighed. "If that were not enough, then there is this." He held up another page of one of the papers where a woman alleged he had misdiagnosed her lung cancer. 'He dismissed me from his office`, the article stated. "She also alleged that you appeared to be watching a card game on the practice computer system. You were even gambling at work, John."

Mycroft rose and stood over him. "The clinic has terminated your contract. You may be in danger of being stuck off the medical register. "

_I owe you a fall_….The words floated in the air.

"Moriarty was playing with my brother, don't you see? The break-ins, the code, the kiss and tell actor…" Mycroft put his hands on the back of John's chair and looked down at him with a faraway look in his eyes. "He intended to finish Sherlock, finally and completely and now it looks like the same thing is happening to you. The press has turned, my dear doctor, and when they do this it destroys lives. The fall was to his reputation, his life and his work. The fall was so much more than merely dropping off a tall building. You saw what they did to him."

John cried out, a raw ripping noise coming from his throat as he swept his tea and food onto the floor. The mention of Sherlock had opened up all his wounds. He dropped to his knees and then after a moment appeared to compose himself after his outburst and gathered up some of the broken china. He got back to his feet to deposit the shards back on the table, then froze suddenly and gripped the pieces, cutting at his palms, trying to steady his trembling hands. He envisioned the flat in Baker Street, the drawer, and inside -his gun, shining softly in the darkness.

"I know what I must do." Once said, it felt like a weight falling from him. His face became stoic, calm, and expressionless.

Mycroft looked at him and closed his eyes. "No. That is not the answer, John. We have been working to minimise the impact of these…developments. Your behaviour has been rather erratic lately. You must be brave, you're a soldier. There are things you don't know, things you will know soon which will change everything. Just hold out a little longer."

He hoped he had not said too much. John sat down again and put his head in his scratched and cut hands.

"Brave little soldier," he whispered to himself sadly. "My mother used to call me that. You know, last time she said it to me was when she lay dying."

Mycroft closed himself off from this sentiment. As he always did. It was too much. "You will attend a limited signing event then you may go home to your girlfriend for some … comfort if you wish."

"Please Mycroft, take me to Baker Street. You can wait outside- just take me. I won't be long." He balled his hands into fists, digging his nails into his bleeding palms.

Mycroft opened a drawer in the sideboard next to the table and removed a small first aid box. "If you intend to get your revolver it has been retrieved." The elder Holmes put down the box, took a doughnut from a plate still on the table and distractedly started to bite it. "I have managed to salvage a few things. As I said, there is still a book signing in an independent book store and no press is allowed inside. The lady you saw in clinic with the cough understands the recent pressures you have faced. She will not sue and is sympathetic. We are getting her private treatment and thankfully, there is no spread of the cancer." Mycroft sighed.

"John, it is going to be all right you know. Surely you are not blind." Mycroft gently pried open John's bleeding hands and opened the salve. "You have had enough hints. You have played the grieving friend too well. We applaud you. Look at me!" Mycroft put his hand under the bowed doctor's chin and raised it, staring meaningfully into his eyes. "Attend the signing; you will be pleasantly surprised by your welcome. You are loved by many. You are cherished by some. You are adored by one."

John glanced down at his hands; Mycroft was slowly rubbing ointment into his palms in circles with his fingers.

"Hadn't you better get to work, Mycroft? The Queen is waiting."

"I didn't mean me."

"Right, I ... Ok, I will see Sarah tonight then. I'll phone her to let her know. Then what? No job, no cash, publicly considered a nutter, ending up in jail."

"You can't expect me to solve all your problems! I do work wonders but you must get a grip. You have got yourself your own arch-enemy, haven't you?"

"What do you mean by that?"

It's Moran, Sebastian Moran, former Colonel in the British army isn't it, John? We know of him." John looked askance.

"He has been following you ever since the fall. He had a gun trained on you and if my brother hadn't jumped, he had orders to kill you. I thought you should know that."

John looked up his eyes widening. "Sherlock jumped for me? Sherlock died for me?" A sudden realisation hit him like a jolt and abruptly he kicked the chair away as he leapt up and made for the hall.

"No, John, where are you going? Let me explain..."

John walked out into the hall and out of the front door. No one stopped him. He crossed the road to the park, eventually found a bench and sat down. Mycroft watched his progress from the breakfast room window.

"Keep an eye on him; make sure he gets to that book signing, give him something, will you?" he asked the young man who entered.

He ran a hand over his forehead. This was going to be a difficult day and possibly he mused, a danger night.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter six

Empty Tower Flat.

Many thanks to Librarianmum for editing this Chapter.

_You've got a heart a loud as lions so why let your voice be tamed? Baby we're a little different there's no need to be ashamed. You've got the light to hide the shadows so stop hiding it away, come on, come on.._ Read all about it

It was raining steadily and the straggling protesters outside were breaking up. The doors had been locked soon after the store had reached capacity. Everyone had been vetted by a security firm before they had been allowed to join the queue to see him.

John could see the dripping banners outside accusing him of everything from fraud to murder. If he admitted the novel was fiction then they had no reason to prosecute him. Mycroft's lawyer was insistent he did. They had been trying to force him to make a statement. He had so far refused to do so. It was only a matter of time before he was officially charged**,** he conceded. He didn't care strangely enough. Let them! A kind of freedom washed over him, the freedom that comes from a man who has lost everything he ever cared about and had given up everything ever meaningful. Nothing mattered anymore; he could do what he liked now. It was over; he had written the book and was literally in Mycroft's hands**. **

He could just see the limo lurking across the street. It was blocking traffic so the car had to keep going round the block until he was ready to go. He couldn't even be trusted to make his way back himself.

The queue had somewhat thinned out now. The book launch was nearly over. "Who is this to?" he asked**,** at the desk.

"Simon," the spotty teenager answered. John took his pen and wrote to Simon `All the best John Watson MD`. Simon clutched his copy to his chest. "I'll always believe in Sherlock Holmes**,"** he gushed. John nodded approvingly and smiled.

The last person in the queue was a tall thin woman with thick tinted glasses and shoulder length black straight hair hanging over her face. She slammed her copy down keeping her face partly hidden and opened the back cover.

"And who can I make this out to, love?" asked John pleasantly.

Really there was no need to be rude he thought as she hissed at the endearment. Everyone was so politically correct these days. He sighed and waited. She huffed slightly. "Shirley," she said in a hoarse sulky smooth voice.

John began to write his signature and added a few kisses. He handed the book back and almost cried out as he caught sight of her face. For a moment he didn't know why he had such a strong reaction to her. Her face was heavily made up and angular. She was wearing dark-blood lipstick and her glasses were tinted so much he couldn't even see her eyes. But she was startlingly pretty and there was something about her that was taking his breath away just looking at her.

She caught his eyes and seemed to return the look as far as he could tell holding him for a second. Then she allowed the corner of her mouth to form a smile. She bent down to him and whispered sultrily, "Let's get out of here."

His eyes widened at the implication "I can't, "he said grinning in spite of himself. "I'm being held prisoner by Mycroft Holmes! Do you see the limo lurking there?**" **

He turned to see his agent and the security detail packing up. He felt a stirring of excitement. He wanted to get away; another night with Mycroft was not very appealing. Then he remembered he was being allowed to go back to Sarah tonight and felt a pang of guilt.

He opened his mouth to excuse himself, but she was already at the storefront door, holding it open for him. He got up as in a dream and followed her. The limo was fortunately doing its slow rotation, going round the back to let traffic through and the protesters had all but gone.

There were a few stragglers and media types still about however, one of which spotted his exit. "There he is!" someone cried rushing towards him. The woman held up her arm as a taxi drew up and stopped for them.

She got in**,** pulling him down with her**,** and they ducked as the taxi moved off. The limo was coming up behind the taxi to stop at the store-door. Someone got out as the security guard came rushing out of the shop and the taxi sped up. They were getting away!

John was determined to enjoy his minute of freedom. He found himself looking at this wonderful woman beside him, crouched on the floor and he found himself giggling, actually giggling like he used to with Sherlock. It had been a long time since he had laughed like that.

"Where to?" asked the driver.

"221b Baker Street," she replied.

His heart gave a jump. "I'm afraid I don't live there anymore sher,. Shirley, but would you like to see the place if I can arrange it?"

She turned to him**.** "If you can't, where else can we go?**" **she asked simply.

"Actually there's nowhere else. I don't live alone**,** you see and my... err flat mate will be in and obviously we can't go to Mycroft's. A public place would be out of the question as I'm being hounded, even in a hotel I could be spotted so..."

"Why would I go to a hotel with you? It can be arranged. Mrs. Hudson is expecting us.**"**

"What? You mean you've met; you've already talked to Mrs. Hudson? Well you are a fan-girl aren't you? You little minx!" He chuckled to himself and placed a hand on her knee.

She turned to him in astonishment. "Kindly remove your hand**,** Dr Watson**,** you forget yourself."

"Oh I'm so sorry" he mumbled apologetically, "I hope you didn't think I was hitting on you -in a taxi of all places. We will soon be at my place. I can order take out if you like and if I'm not mistaken there is a bottle of wine in the sideboard we can share."

Then we'll see**,** he thought to himself and looked at her smugly.

For a moment she looked puzzled. Then suddenly she tipped her head back onto the cushions of the taxi and laughed heartily. She turned her head still laughing and he found himself joining in, though he didn't know what they were laughing at. It was so funny this situation, so absurdly funny. He was just crying with laughter. Tears were running down his cheeks and he laughed so hard he finally started to push the darkness back for a while. He was finally escaping them all, Mycroft, Sarah, his debts, the impulse to gamble, and it was all because of this lady, this amazing girl he had only just met but it felt like he had known her all his life.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 Tower Flat

_`baby we`re a little different there`s no need to be ashamed_ ` (ES)

Mrs. Hudson opened the door and exclaimed in delight. She greeted John with a hug and a kiss and then turned her attention to Shirley. To John's amazement, she did the same to her, with tears in her eyes.

"You two know each other?" he asked.

"Oh, we're old friends," Shirley stated, disentangling herself and trying to keep her glasses on.

Mrs. Hudson patted his cheek. "I'll be up later with some supper for you both, dears, I've just boiled the kettle."

"How kind," said Shirley, striding up the 17 steps to the flat as if she lived there.

John turned wonderingly to his former landlady. She chuckled and her eyes were shining as she made her way back to her flat, humming to herself.

The supper was lovely, a beef stew with dumplings and John found a bottle of Chateau Neuf in the cupboard. Then Mrs. Hudson brought up treacle tart. Heaven.

They were both sitting on the sofa and John was trying to edge nearer. She seemed to have drunk most of the wine and he'd found another bottle of red that they were well into. She didn't seem talkative; he'd told her everything about himself.

"So, I am living temporally with my boss at the clinic; that's only until I can get my own place of course," he continued.

"Nevertheless, she regards herself as your girlfriend, you are sleeping with her**," **she replied coldly.

"Well, technically," he said**,** uncomfortably. 'How did she know that?' he thought, 'must be a woman's intuition'.

"We started off in different rooms as flatmates, then it got ... complicated. Yes, I know, how often have you heard _that_ one before?"

"I see," she said pensively, a wistful smile on her lips.

"But she really doesn't understand me. I can't see us lasting much longer. It's just not working. I didn't want to let her down. I've been planning to move out. I just can't seem to tell her**." **

He sighed. Why was he telling her all this?

He decided to change tack. "You do look lovely by the way. Have you got anyone?" He gave her his most flirtatious smile.

"You're a regular womaniser**,** aren't you?" She was looking at her nails. "It's quite ..interesting to be the object of your pursuit. "

He moved a little closer as she backed against the arm of the couch. She had slipped her shoes off and had one leg curled under her on the sofa, with the foot under her other leg. Her skirt had rucked up on that side**,** exposing a glimpse of stocking top. The view was sparking desire in him and he tried resting his hand on her thigh, caressing the stocking top. She gave him an alarmed look and then laughed softly to herself.

"I wouldn't go there if I were you, please remove your hand."

"Do you really want me to?" His gaze dropped to her lips, and as he closed his eyes and dipped forward to kiss her**,** she scrabbled, jumped off the settee and stood looking at his frustrated expression with utter bemusement. She was panting slightly and fixing him with an inscrutable glare that only people wearing thickly tinted glasses can achieve.

John tried another tactic. "You fan-girls probably dream about this sort of situation but when it comes down to it, would you rather stay in your room dreaming ratherthan doing**,** eh? If you're inexperienced**,** that's fine by me. Give a bloke a chance would you? You can trust me I'm a.**.." **

His phone stated ringing.

Suddenly she smirked; silkily moved her stocking feet towards the bedroom and glanced over her shoulder at him.

"All right!" he yelped.

"Answer your phone, John," she called out in a slightly deeper voice than before.

He felt a tremor go through him. He didn't know why.

He took the phone out and squinted at the number to see who was calling. It was Sarah: he had promised her he would come over that evening. Sighing he answered it.

"Sarah, sorry love, I got waylaid I'm afraid."

Well, that was true. He suddenly felt a pang of guilt.

"Where am I? Oh, would you believe Baker Street? You would? Yes, suppose, I better stay here now, had a drink well, one or two. Yes I will. The signing went ok actually, was it on the news? But no one from the press was allowed in. Mycroft? Has he? Phone you tomorrow. You too."

...

Sarah put the phone down. 'What's he up to?' she wondered. Beside her on the table, two dinners were ruined. She had no appetite for hers and his lay there overcooked and untouched.

This was it**,** she determined. He's not getting another chance unless he comes home first thing tomorrow. Trying to hold back tears because she was a woman who didn't easily cry over things like this, she got up and scraped the beef bourguignon into the bin. Then she poured herself a glass of wine. She got out her laptop to look over the practice accounts, but somehow had trouble seeing them, they were getting all blurry. She was crying in spite of herself. 'There is no Sherlock, any more,' she thought, 'so, no distractions for him. So why is he still mooning over him at Baker Street**?** Why can't he let it go? '

She may have to get him professional help at this rate**;** the other partners at the surgery would demand it.

...

He sighed again. This was awkward, these feelings running through him. He always had a reckless streak, well, anyone who loved danger and excitement as much as he craved it took risks. One of the risks was this, occasional instant belief in people he had only just met. Yes, trust issues, he would latch on to certain individuals. It had got him into all sorts of trouble. It was like a rush. But sometimes you can feel that connection run right through your heart. Run right to your soul.

Sarah was great, she really was, but she wasn't ever going to be his soulmate was she? What was he doing to her? Using her? No, no, they were two lost souls just together**,** that's all. She would find someone else. This may not work out, this was only one night but there was something about this woman something he'd not**...** something that had been missing from his life.

Now that he had justified his actions somewhat**,** he let his chin rise in defiance and strode into the room.


	8. Chapter 8

The Empty Tower Flat Chapter 8

_Thanks to Librarianmum for editing this chapter_

_Sorry this has been a long time- I do need some reviews to motivate me!_

John strode into the room and looked for the woman. She seemed to have disappeared.

Puzzled he turned to Sherlock, who was sitting on his bed looking at him with concern. "Did you see a woman come in here?" he asked pleasantly. Sherlock did not answer.

Smiling at him distractedly**,** he turned to go**,** and then his mind caught up with him.

He felt his knees weaken and give way and a white mist was rising before his eyes. Dimly he was aware that someone had caught him before he fell and he was being laid on the bed.

…

His head full of strange exotic dreams, he was dimly aware of being raised up and felt the burning sensation of alcohol running down his throat, the sound of someone familiar taking to him and the edge of consciousness receding as his head fell back on the pillow. There was a sense of someone sleeping beside him.

…

He woke up with a start. He was alone. There was a taste like brandy on his lips and the top buttons on his shirt were undone. It was getting light. His mind reeled with possibilities running through it. Getting out of bed**,** he padded into the lounge.

Sherlock was startlingly there, seated on the sofa, engrossed in something on the internet. Orange light was filtering through the kitchen as the street-lights mingled with the rosy glow of London dawn. The pale face of his former flatmate was reflected by the light of the laptop flickering. John stood in awe for a moment at the scene. The room was in shadow**, **with the curtains open.

Sherlock looked up warily. He shut the computer. Broke the spell.

"It was you!" said John. There seemed nothing else to say.

He took a step forward, his hand clenching into a fist.

Sherlock stood, his hand raised in a calming gesture. He started to say something. At that moment, outside, the unmistakable sound of a police car siren stopped suddenly. Car doors slammed and he heard a cacophony of violent knocking at the door.

"I'm not here, I'm not alive**.**" Sherlock was heading for his bedroom, pulling his gown tightly round him as he ran. He stopped suddenly as he got level with John.

"Take your phone and earpiece and wait for my call. Go with them, get rid of them quickly."

The knocking had stopped because Mrs. Hudson had woken and let them in. Sherlock shut his door just as Lestrade and Donovan shot though the front of the flat.

John turned as the inspector almost skidded in. He took a deep breath. The light levels had risen but it was still pretty dark. Sally flicked the light on, illuminating the room.

"Will you come?" asked Lestrade.

The room was suddenly silent. Donovan stood beside her detective. She crossed her arms. "That girlfriend of his, Sarah, she said he'd be here".

He tried to compose himself, running a hand though hair that was sticking up. `I must look a right state`, he thought. He felt shocked and pale.

"Greg, Sally, what's happened? Why on earth do you need me? I might of learnt one or two things with, with Sher -," he swallowed, "but I'm hardly.."

Lestrade looked grim. "You either come now, or you may find yourself subject to arrest. We have a murder, or at least it could be. Locked room, tower flat, no bullet. I'm holding off Anderson but I need your expertise. Friend of yours perhaps? "

"Who is it?"

"Robin Adair, lately discharged from the army and professional poker player. Yes**,** you may well look like that, word is, he was killed by Colonel Sebastian Moran, a former officer you both served with. I pulled the Colonel's records, there's bad blood between you two. Implicated or not I need you to come with me now."

Of course, he would be dead. He had been caught cheating. Moran wouldn't stand for it. "I saved his life you know. In the field, land mine, four years ago."

"Will you come?"

"Right, give me a minute**,** guys, I'll be down in a sec, just need to get my phone and.."

Sally was looking round the room. "When we called, your girlfriend said you'd be skulking round here. Still can't keep away can you?"

She stopped and picked up 'Shirley's' shoes.

"You with someone?" she asked.

Lestrade had turned to go. Now he turned back. "Put those back, it's none of our business**,** Sally," he said, looking at John speculatively .

John felt the colour come up in his face. "I **...** look, leave it Sally**.**" He glanced at the bedroom.

"Oh, ho! Now the tables are turning aren't they? Looks like little Johnny may not be such a goody two shoes after all?" she grinned, holding up the shoes. "Welcome to the club**,** mate!"

John put his hand over his mouth.

Sally turned the low heels over in her hands. "Hey, big blooming feet this gals got init? I thought I'd got big plates, but she really takes the biscuit. That her handbag?"

"Sally!" shouted Greg**,** desperately. "We haven't got time for this; let's just get down to the car now".

But Sally was frowning as she picked up the bag. "This is light?" she said, "and it looks like it came from a second hand shop. Would a real woman have a nearly empty handbag and such big feet like that? "She looked at him.

John was sitting on the couch now with his head in his hands.

"It's not what you think, Sally," he said, "just leave me alone, right? "

"Sally, I'm warning you! Leave it!" shouted Lestrade.

Sally chuckled softly as she was pushed out of the door by her boss, who threw him a strange look.

"You've got one minute mate!" he said, "don't worry, I'll deal with Donovan.

The pair clattered down the stairs. John could only imagine what was being said about him.

Suddenly it didn't seem to matter. Sherlock was back.

Sherlock was back!

Happy for the first time in years, he could now look forward to something. He ran into the bedroom.

Ashen faced**,** he saw the woman, Shirley, seated at the dresser, applying her makeup. She turned round. For a moment he thought it had all been a dream, but when he looked again he realised it was Sherlock. She smiled at him.

"Get, your phone, plug in your earpiece and we can communicate. I want all the details. I will be outside the tower block. I need photos and your description of the room and Adair. I will be unrecognizable, after all, you didn't have a clue did you? I now know my disguise is completely effective."


End file.
